


Unbearable

by gnosiophobic



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Post - A Dance With Dragons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-19 04:18:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1455100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnosiophobic/pseuds/gnosiophobic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Longing on a cold, winter night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Moonlight bathed his face, accenting every perfect crevice, every flawless slope, every glistening silver hair lost in a sea of gold.  She’d never look upon him in daylight.  At least not like this.  Even now, letting her eyes linger for so long made her shift uncomfortably, though she was certain he slept.

The image stayed behind her eyelids, anyway.  Hidden away in her head, where no one would mock her, and no one could reject her.  It was there she could touch the strong line of his jaw, stroke his dingy, lovely hair.  And there she could say she loved him and succumb to the dull ache of knowing he’d never feel the same.

_I won’t cry.  Not tonight_ , she promised.  For weeping was reserved for the weak, and she was a warrior, though not a knight.  To cry for a man who still lived, who slept peacefully beside her, seemed childish.

_You’re not beautiful and you never will be.  You’re not elegant or quick-witted, either._ Isn’t that what her Septa had reminded her at every chance?  The words echoed anytime she forced her eyes upon a looking glass, and grew louder when he was near.  As though each passing moment by his side was some terrible reminder of everything that could never be.

_And Jaime never failed to remind me, either._ Though not since she’d taken him to the Brotherhood, not since she’d saved him.  But he’d japed and taunted her so many times before, it no longer mattered what he said or didn’t say.

_No matter_ , she thought.  _He’ll never love me.  How could he?_ Her large arms wrapped protectively around her hulking shoulders.

Turning away, she stole a final glance at his face and cursed herself for it.  With a soft sigh, her worried eyes flickered closed, and the darkness was quickly replaced by the image of Jaime sleeping peacefully, with strands of golden hair falling into his face.  Her fingers ached to touch him, to brush it away, though she laid still.  _Every night ends the same_.  With sounds of owls and nightbirds calling into the night, and torturous thoughts filling her head.

But her eyes shot open when a heavy, maimed arm fell unceremoniously over her waist.  As he shuffled closer, Jaime muttered some nonsense in his sleep, his lips so close to the nape of her neck, she nearly shivered.

_Only for warmth.._ she knew, pushing herself away from his grasp, and cowering as the cold air seeped between them.  Somehow, the bitter chill of winter always gave more comfort than the burn of his skin.

Touching in the night was unbearable when it meant nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

“Where are you going, wench?” his voice coarse from sleep, but soft, laced with worry.  “Come back, it’s cold.”

“This is ..improper,” her voice girlish and small.  They’d slept so close at least a dozen nights before, each one more hurtful than the last.  Awkwardly, his stump brushed over her hip.

“Staying alive is improper?”

_No, but desiring a man of the Kingsguard is_ , she thought, softly brushing the puckered scar on her cheek.   _Not that duty would be his only hindrance._

“Stubborn woman,” he argued with her silence, shuffling behind her until his shortened arm once again draped over her waist, his lips just a hair from the skin on her neck.  “We’ve slept together like this for more than a fortnight now,” he whispered against her skin, forcing her to shudder beneath his touch.  “Why is tonight so different?”

“It’s not,” she answered quickly.  But it was.  Each night grew more painful, each glance at his sleeping face more a noose tightening around her throat than a gasp of air.  She wanted to run away in the darkness, forgetting everything, forgetting him, but she couldn’t leave his side.  Instead, she played the same awful game, night after night, until she fell into a fitful sleep.

“Brienne,” her name fell from his lips sweet and thick, like honey.  “What troubles you?,” his lips scarcely grazing her neck.  “What keeps the honorable Maid of Tarth up each night?”

“Worry for Catelyn’s daughters,” she lied.

“Each day we search for Sansa until we near collapse.  Worrying at night won’t help that cause,” he whispered.  “But you know that.  You’re a practical woman.”  The feel of his nose nudging below her ear was maddening.

“It’s nothing,” she insisted.  “Get some rest, we have a long day of travel ahead of us.”

“Not until I know you won’t leave me alone in the cold.”

“I won’t,” her brow furrowed.

“You already have,” his voice uncharacteristically quiet and unsteady in the night, as he pulled her closer with one strong arm.  She could feel the outline of his chest against her back, strands of his hair on her shoulders and his lips upon her ear.  She shivered despite the warmth between them.

“Please don't go,” he whispered.

Then his lips found her neck in a slow, hesitant kiss.  She fought the urge to lean into it, to turn and face him, to think it was anything more than an accident.

For a moment, everything stopped, she laid frozen, and he, motionless behind her.  She began to wonder if it all was a dream, if any small part of it was real.  Timidly, she turned to face him and be sure.  With a quick glance, she found his eyes full of question and worry.  Her shoulders tensed, as she turned her gaze to the ground.

“I couldn’t if I tried.”  It was more a confession than she’d ever wanted to make.

Not a moment later, she felt his stump nudging at her shoulder, relaxing her back against the ground.  Fingertips timidly traced the line of her jaw, her cheek, and the ugly scarred flesh, and his lips hovered just above hers.

“Then stop trying,” he said softly, then pushed his mouth to hers in a desperate, and almost timid kiss, not that Brienne had known many others.

His lips were cracked and chapped from cold, and hers still shivered, chilled and uncertain.  His strong chest pushed harder into her leaving no space for frigid air to settle, and his kiss intensified, lips moving faster against hers.  Her heart raced and fluttered, her chest swelled, as she stumbled to keep up, making fists in the furs below.

She’d dreamt of this moment so many times, but it was nothing like she imagined.  It was complex, and too easy to get lost, yet much better than she ever could have anticipated.  But in dreams, she never once worried about the movement of her lips against his, or how to match the feel of his mouth against hers.  For kissing Ser Jaime Lannister could never be anything more than a dream.

When his tongue slipped over her lower lip, grazing her bottom teeth, she pulled away.

Their eyes met again, wide and worried.  Moonlight elegantly highlighted his face, curls framing and falling over his forehead as though he were some exquisite beast.  She wanted to kiss him again, to feel his tongue inside her mouth, just as he’d promised, but before she could return, his lips had found her cheek, her ear, her neck in wet, open-mouthed kisses full of want.  Instinctively, her eyes flickered closed and her breath hitched.

_I must be dreaming_ , she thought again.  But everything felt so real, like the pressure of his fingers splayed across her hip, the wet of his mouth finding her collarbone just below her tunic, and the cold dirt beneath the furs she sank deeper into.

Cautiously, her fingertips ghosted over the nape of his neck and tangled gently in his hair.  Her touch was light, as though anything more forceful might push him away, might awaken her.

“We shouldn’t,” he said, breathless, glancing down to her hip.  “You’re still a maid,” he paused.  “And the heir to Tarth.”

“And you’re a man of the Kingsguard.”

“That cloak of mine was never white, you know that better than most,” his head shook in disagreement.

“Even a cloak of black has its vows.”

At that, he rolled away from her, lying flat on his back, watching the stars.  His good hand raised to rub his brow.  Cold air and silence settled between them, and though she was clothed, Brienne felt exposed, naked, and left with bitter want.

_You’re a stupid girl for desiring what you can never have_ , Septa Roelle’s voice echoed.  The old woman spoke then of her avid interest in swordplay and knights instead of dresses and needlework, but the words still rang true.  And somehow knowing Jaime desired her in some small way, but could never claim her stung worse than knowing he’d never love her.

_Such a stupid girl_ , she thought, and her stomach dropped.   _Duty cares not for the desires of men, just as justice cares not for mercy. _

Jaime shuffled beside her, and took in a sharp breath as his eyes shot open.

“You know,” he began, his voice hopeful and almost smug.  “I recall the day I was knighted by Ser Arthur Dayne like it was only yesterday.”

Some part of her hoped he wasn't about to share some story from his youth.  For she was not in the mood for pointless tales.

“And I remember the day I joined the Kingsguard,” he said, reverently.  “I remember how proud I was to be the youngest member and exactly how angry my father had been.  And I remember plainly the oath I took, the vows I swore, as though they’re imprinted upon my mind.  Every last word.”  He paused then, catching her gaze with a boyish grin spreading easy across his face.  “But I don’t recall the Mad King once mentioning my tongue.”

Her brow furrowed.  _Tongue?_ , she thought, innocently.  _Certainly Ser Jaime wouldn’t.._ Her cheeks felt aflame with just the idea.  She’d heard men speak of dipping their heads between a woman’s legs back in Renly’s camp, but she’d always thought it a joke.  _The Lord’s Kiss_ , they had called it, because a delicate highborn lady couldn’t tolerate a proper fucking.  But Brienne had learned to ignore much of the filth men spoke.

“If it please you, of course.. my lady,” his tone dark and heavy.  Without thought or hesitation, she nodded and heard her voice as some meek whisper of approval.  He turned to face her once more with a wide grin.

“Come closer, Brienne," he said again, her name smooth and sweet upon his lips.  "It’s cold.”

And she did, shuffling toward him, cursing her flushed cheeks, the smile threatening to sneak across her face and the nervous flutter in her chest.  She was a woman grown now, no longer a girl.  She’d seen men take whores and camp followers rough as they could and worse.  Still, she wondered if she’d always blush when it was Jaime speaking of such things.

Unhurried, his gaze broke from her eyes and drifted to her lips before he claimed them again, slow and languid, making her feel wanted, beautiful.

His good hand found the skin of her waist hiding below her tunic, turning it to gooseflesh.  A calloused thumb agonizingly traced tiny circles below her ribs.  And this time when his tongue grazed her lower lip, she opened to let him in.  It was an odd and wonderful feeling, his tongue sliding against hers, his teeth biting at her bottom lip.

So many songs ended with the great knight kissing a beautiful maiden, but there was never a mention of tongues or teeth.  And Brienne knew she was not one to inspire poetry.  Still, she mimicked each movement he made, fighting the overwhelming urge to lose herself.

Until his lips returned to her neck, and the palm of his good hand found the bud of her breast, and her breath caught in her throat.

“Do you truly know what improper is?,” he whispered, his lips grazing her ear, his hand delicately brushing over her breast.  Brienne could only gasp in response.

“Improper is looking at me as though you’re begging to be kissed, only to ignore me for hours after.  Improper is whispering my name as you sleep, then pushing away from me in the dead of night,” his voice soft, but desperate, his hand rubbing relentlessly over her breast, his thigh pushed between her legs until they fell open.

“And improper is certainly shoving me against a tree when we spar, thrusting your body against mine, until I yield just to relieve myself in the woods.”

She scarcely understood the words he said, but they were mostly lost in the feel of his fingers rubbing, flicking and lightly pinching.

“If you’re to make your Septa frown,” he continued.  “It shouldn’t be for something as innocent as sleeping close for warmth.”  His hand circled more quickly.  “It should be for screaming my name.”  His grip tightened on the small hardened bud he teased.

In the dreary quiet of the night, she heard her throat gasp and moan, felt her cheeks flush at the sound, and swiftly slapped a hand over her mouth.  And for a moment, Jaime stilled with a look of uncertainty writ across his face before moving back to her ear, once again whispering.

“Be as loud as you want,” warm breath ghosted across her skin.  “There’s no one around but me,” he swallowed hard.  “And I want to hear you.”

As he muttered into her ear, his hand drifted down past her belly, under the loose waistband of her breeches and trailed near the juncture of her thigh.  And her head swam with each new sensation—the crisp air settling over each exposed inch, Jaime’s lips finding the bud of her breast, fingertips trailing the length of her legs until breeches and smallclothes alike laid in a heap nearby, leaving her covered by nothing but a flimsy tunic.  Even that was bunched up to her shoulders.

Some part of her began to worry that Jaime would recoil at any moment, that he’d step back, take a good look, scoff, then leave her lying naked in the cold.  Her legs far too large to belong to a woman, her skin covered in scars from all her years acting foolishly like a knight.

But Jaime had seen her before, and knew her well.  No grimace fell upon his face with each glance, no disgusted growl with each touch. And as his palm pushed deeper into her side, and his lips pressed harder, trailing down to her belly, she soon thought of nothing at all.

Looking upon him, she saw his brow furrow in uncertain determination.  He seemed almost lost, like some green squire trying is hand at seduction for the first time.  But his movements were well-practiced.

Still, something about his look of restraint, the uneasy look on his face put Brienne at ease.  As though she was not the only one with limited experience in the ways of men and women.

At least until his hand found the slit between her legs, trailing across its warmth before dipping a single finger inside.  She’d never felt so full, so whole before.

His finger was slippery wet when it moved out of her, trailed up and settled on a spot, a bud, that made her nearly shout and moan into the dark night.  He moved so slow it was almost painful.

Innocently, he kissed her right thigh, then the left, closed-mouthed and sweet while his hand wickedly stroked between her legs, pushing and pulling, rubbing in circles.  Her eyes forced shut, and she could feel herself jerking, matching his movements, could hear herself whispering his name, _Jaime Jaime Jaime.._  and hoped it was only imagined.

Then he stopped, his mouth and hand stilled.

_This is it_ , she thought.  _This is when he realizes what an awful mistake he’s made following me.  When he remembers his twin’s beauty by simply looking upon me, and returns to her for good._

But when she looked upon him, a complacent grin snuck over his face.  He almost looked amused.

“I realize you’re still but a maid,” he said.  “But must you be so bashful?”  She looked upon him, quizzically, and lost for words.

“I distinctly remember saying,” he dipped his head between her legs.  “Only a few moments ago,” his breath ghosted over the spot where he’d focused his finger, nose tickling the skin just above.  “That I wanted to hear you.”

Then his tongue pressed firm against the bud, his golden hair brushed against her thighs, and her voice made the most wanton of moans.  His mouth was upon her, over her, pushing and sucking, licking and humming.  Each movement seemingly blended into one.  Waves pulsed through her, pushing her, and she felt her lips move, but the words were lost amongst the feeling.

And then she broke, and it was like nothing she’d felt before.  Her body felt as though it was shaking, floating, imploding, yet she laid on the dirt ground.  She wanted to cry with pleasure, or uncertainty, to reach for him, just to know he was still there.

Desperately, she grasped at his hair as she came back down, smaller waves still coursing through her with each lap of his tongue.

“Well,” he said, smugly, wiping his lips and beard with his sleeve.

_He tore me apart without so much as removing his tunic_ , Brienne thought, shamefully.

“There will be no question as to whether or not wights roam these lands,” he continued.  “At least not now, since you’ve woken the dead.”

Her cheeks grew hot, her hand reached to cover her closed eyes and she groaned, resting her head back against the dirt floor.  Scarcely, she felt Jaime pulling her small clothes back into place, his touch light and soft, as though her legs were made of glass.  And there was uncertainty in it, ridiculous as it was.

Briefly, his palm lingered on her thigh, and she wanted to open her eyes, just to look upon him, to make some attempt to read his face.  But she couldn’t.  Surely he’d be disgusted by just how loud and indecent she’d been.  Surely he’d wish his beautiful twin laid before him instead.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, and cursed herself for it.  Wasn’t thanking a man for her pleasure something a whore might do once she’d received her coin?  But Jaime only laughed, and the sound was almost endearing.

“Wench,“ his voice was light.  “If it weren’t for you, I’d be swinging from a tree branch right now.  Or my head might be on a spike lining the King’s road.  If nothing else, consider it a meager attempt to pay that debt.”

With that, he kissed her bony knee, then stood, biting his lip as he walked toward the dark tree line.  There was a faint smile on his face as he did, one she could see was meant only for himself, one he couldn't fight.  She recognized it well, as it settled on her face, too.

_ If nothing_ _else.._ his words echoed.

Guilt tugged at her.  No man had ever touched her, no man was supposed to before her wedding night, certainly not one with a cloak of white.  And yet she felt no different than before.  No sacred part of her was lost under Jaime's lips.

If a maester examined her, he'd say her virtue was intact, but Brienne knew better.  Honor was not some piece of skin.

_And mine was lost the moment I slipped my blade through Catelyn's back._

 


End file.
